


I Married a Vampire

by Mab (Mab_Browne)



Series: Vampire Sentinel [2]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-09-20
Updated: 2004-09-20
Packaged: 2017-10-23 22:05:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/255527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mab_Browne/pseuds/Mab
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the morning after the first time that Jim 'feeds' on Blair.  Second story of my Vampire Sentinel series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Married a Vampire

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2004

I wake up, look at the skylight, and say, "I'm an idiot." Because I am, and the answer is in my mind, full blown and blindingly obvious. We cheat! Jim takes a leaf out of the book of a depressing number of professional and amateur (ha!) athletes when faced with an inconvenient medical exam, and presto change-o, the little problem of the department physical goes away. I am so an idiot, and hungry to boot, and there is nobody in this bed with me. I sit up and there is a piece of paper on Jim's pillow. "I'm out," I read. "Back about seven with food. Jim."

I check the bedside clock. About 6.45 am. Then I look at that note again, which is typical Ellison. Terse, but with underlying emotional currents. Because he doesn't need any bagels or muffins or whatever he's going to bring back. 'With food' is as close as I'm ever going to get to seeing him sign off a note with 'love and kisses, your honeybunch', which is, on reflection, just as well. I like this better. Jim is making a statement in his own Ellisonian way.

But I'm still hungry right now. Aha, dried apricots in the kitchen, chewy, high in fibre and also in iron. The perfect food for a man whose vampire lover spent the night chowing down on that essential food group, my blood. Which goes to show that while a good night's sleep can you give you distance on some of your problems, it's not completely reliable, because I can't help this silly nervous giggle. Fine, apricots, some green tea, a nice little appetiser for whatever Jim's going to bring back.

I'm impatient for him to get back. I want to discuss the solution with him, although of course that depends on what sort of mood he's in. Although I guess it can't be that bad if he's prepared to brave our early-opening local patisserie for a love offering.

Downstairs, I put on the kettle, get out my teapot and promptly have a little flashback to last night. I manage to put the pot down on the work-top without breaking it, which is good. I like that teapot. I don't so much like the memory of a very angry and maybe little out of control Jim - advancing - towards me.

Shit, but that was scary. And while Jim and scary can go together really well, I'm not usually the person who's scared of him. Barring one little time when my feet barely touched the ground, and that was pretty early in our acquaintance, I don't think that I have ever been scared of Jim. Scared for him, scared of his disapproval, but not scared of him. Usually, _usually_ I'm inside the aura of his protection watching the blue laser beam of death zero in on some other schmuck.

You can study all the theory you like, but field work can be stressful, even if it goes well. And when a large man is looming over you, yelling, and you are doing your very best to convince him that you really want him to suck your blood - well, yeah that's pretty stressful. And once Jim was convinced, the whole blood sucking thing was pretty eventful too.

And now I have to sit down, because all the flip, distancing self-talk in the world is not doing it for me. So, let's just breathe here, in and out.

But it went fine, I tell myself. Better than fine. Wildly successful even, whether you look at it objectively or subjectively. Jim is fine, he was under control, in the latter part of the proceedings, anyway. He can get what he needs without hurting me. And I get one hell of an orgasm out of it, blow the top of your head off, no effort, guaranteed. The Sandburg analytical faculties are working behind the scenes on why that should be. Wonder if my beloved will let me near his mouth with a dentist's mirror, but I'm not asking him that this morning. Pick my moment another time.

Of course, mind blowing as the physical side of thing was, Jim had to drop the emotional boom on me as well, but dealing with that is a long-term problem anyway. Yeah, let everything be long-term. Gradually, I calm down. I am relaxed, I am centred, I am not thinking about twenty years from now, when Jim will presumably look ten years younger than me. That'll be a trip. Sure.

The door opens, and here he is. Jeans and t-shirt, sneakers and light jacket, looking gorgeous as always. I put on my best smile, and then it's not even put on, because I have the idea to tell him, and he looks good, a little diffident, but essentially relaxed.

"They had croissants," he says, unnecessarily, because the smell is putting my saliva glands into overdrive. The cure for the tail end of the common panic attack is either a big bag of croissants, or else it's Jim. "Thought you could always stick some in the freezer for later." Which is a waste of delectable fresh baking, but sounds sensible. I'm not _that_ hungry.

I get up, heat the kettle back up and finally make some tea. It should really be coffee, but maybe all those antioxidants will tone down the effect of the two croissants I've put on a plate. Flaky, buttery, melt in your mouth, with absolutely no nutritional value to them whatsoever. Another time I'd tease Jim about that, but after last night my internal censor is on full alert. I am standing here, happy and nervous, because for the first time in nearly a month, Jim is giving me tacit permission, encouragement even, to eat in front of him. I'm pathetic.

He folds me up in a hug. "You okay?"

"I'm great, man, although I think that Mensa should revoke my membership."

"You don't belong to Mensa," he says. "So how do you think that the Sandburg brain has failed you this time?"

"Because the solution to the PD physical is so obvious, and I never saw it."

"We cheat," he says solemnly.

I grin, clap him on the shoulder, but he doesn't share my mood. He just watches me, something he does a lot. I heat the pot, spoon tea, pour water.

"You use the Force on the doctor for all those little details that he or she is going to write down on the spot. We provide blood and urine beforehand, they may not be needed but they're there if necessary and then you use your best Alec Guinness voice to say 'these are the samples you're looking for'." I demonstrate an Obi Wan voice accordingly, and he gives me the look that says 'he's exiting his gourd again'.

Okay, I'm a little punchy after last night. I'm relieved because the solution to the physical is so obvious, and I'm a little embarrassed, because the solution to the physical is so damn obvious.

"I don't think that they necessarily check blood typing, just test for what's required. And if that's the case, then we could use my blood. You must know one end of a needle from the other, Mr Army Medic. And if I'm wrong, then we'll think of some other way to get it. That'll be trickier but there has to be a way. I'm sorry, Jim, I don't know where my head has been."

“I can make some guesses, Chief. Tell me, how long had you been planning for what happened last night?"

I look at him. He doesn't look pissed off. He's just watching me, like Naomi when she knew I'd been in the cookie jar, but she just wanted me to own up by myself.

"Pretty much as soon as you told me that it was safe."

"Probably safe. A benign process." His voice is silky, and I know I'm going to regret using that phrase. "And you didn't discuss this with me -why?"

The bastard. I flash again to him standing over me last night, yelling his anger in my face, gradually calming down into a Jim that I could halfway recognise, the two of us getting to be scared of the same thing together.

"Well, duh, Jim."

"You ambushed me."

"I go with what works, and I don't think that you were ever in the mood to calmly and rationally discuss my being your drinks dispenser, so yes, I waited until you didn't have a choice. Guilty as charged, Detective."

"And with that little master plan in your head, are you surprised that you didn't have a lot of room to worry about something that was nearly half a year away? This has all been one happy trip to Disneyland for you too?"

I put the tea on the table. I've gotten off lightly, he's decided it's only a misdemeanour, but it's still time to sit down again. And I remember that I really am hungry. Next time, I'll try to remember to eat and drink something straight afterwards.

"How the hell do you make the most unacceptable things look completely inevitable after the fact?" he asks and he's wearing his 'yeah, I'm joking with you' face, and I love him so much it hurts.

I laugh, remember the apricots and eat them straight out of the container. It's your basic Tupperware, and Jim looks horrified. He uses - used - a milk jug, for god's sake. The croissants are delicious. And irrationally, I feel like a complete bastard for laughing and eating around Jim. I think he's monitoring me because his face changes, just a little. He's been watching me with the approving look of a mother whose darling has finished three heaping helpings of dinner, and now he senses the indigestion coming on.

Time to change the subject, except that my internal censor has shorted out - again.

"You don't look that pleased about the physical solution, Jim." Which is true, he's not as enthusiastic as I'd hoped. I mean, I know this is Jim we're talking about, but even so.

"No, no, it's sweet. We should be able to swing it."

A thought strikes me.

"Is it the hoodoo? I know that you don't like using it. Is it difficult, or does it just weird you out?"

He gives me the 'no comment' look, which is answer enough. It weirds him out, big time. Jim is looking at that mirage called "normal" again. His father pointed it out when Jim was ten, and all his worst mistakes descend when he tries heading for it.

"How badly do you want to stay in the department, Jim?"

"I know," he snaps. "We can do it. Just let me get used to the idea." He sighs. That's right, Jim, you tell normal to go screw itself. "We have a whole two days off. What do you want to do with it?"

I wanted a change of subject. Be grateful.

"Well, I want to check out which bookstores have the best deal on "Gray's Anatomy" or something similar, cause we still have to work out how to deal with unexpected medical situations. The more we know about how the body is expected to behave the better. And there's plenty of pictures. If we need to try visualisation exercises then that might give you something to work with."

And so, there's all the current worries dealt with. And I refuse to consider medium, long- term, or other problems right now. Like what happens if he's shot. If he gets exposed to drugs again, like the Golden mess. What happens when someone invites us to a meal. Sufficient to the day. We'll deal with it.

"Oh yeah," he says, "red and grey squishy bits. Just what I need to visualise. So that's the sum total of your plans, Chief?"

I know _that_ tone of voice. Nicely deep and very smooth. Jim has an idea of his own, and he starts expressing it with a firm hand stroking my nape.

"For now," I say, and I lean back into that hand and the strength behind it.

"What do you say about going back to bed? It's still early."

"Sure. Who's driving?"

"I'm not a vehicle, Sandburg."

"Ah," I say sagely. "I'm driving. Cool."


End file.
